


Acclimatising

by DarkAkumaHunter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, Dapper Waistcoat Cecil, Desert Bluffs, I'm going to re-write this, Ignoring Best of? though, M/M, Spoilers, Strex Stuff, be warned, except on casual fridays, i'm rewriting a lot of things these days, spoilers for every episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAkumaHunter/pseuds/DarkAkumaHunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can run, you can hide, but we will find you. Both the secret motto of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, and the determination of a nation to find their saviour. Paths that should never cross, collide. Welcome, to Night Vale.</p><p> </p><p>I'm bad with story names. It's the long-form of Cultural Differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first two chapters a really long time ago, so there are things it doesn't take into account (plus I just made up Cecil's age) such as, oh, I don't know, [Best of?]
> 
> This is the Cecil I decided ages ago that I was going to use for this story - http://sour-purple.deviantart.com/art/And-now-slaves-of-the-cloud-the-weather-392199475

In an odd little town known as Night Vale, just down the road from Desert Bluffs, in an unknown corner of the United States of America, decisions are made for you by the vast entities known as the City Council and the Sheriff’s Secret Police. That is not to say that any bad decisions can be blamed on them in turn, though they appreciate the thought if something turns out well. Government mandated decisions mean that life in Night Vale is swell. Citizens are less stressed without the pressures of making important life choices. They can live peacefully and safely knowing that the Council and the Sheriff’s Secret Police will do the hard yards for them.

Unfortunately, in the rest of the world, humanity is burdened with having to make all of their own decisions. What to eat, what profession they should have, what to do with orphaned children…

Orphanages you say? Well yes, most of the less fortunate areas did possess those sorts of foundations specifically for dealing with that last point. Lost children flourish together or something like that.

But common sense, that strange phenomenon the majority of the planet was infected with, didn’t often apply to a certain hidden society. A group of people _not_ native to Night Vale or their neighbour. Wizards. Or more specifically, the wizarding community of the United Kingdom. To them, blood was everything, in one way or another. To some that meant status, to others it meant family. To one elderly wizard in particular it meant a belief in a much deeper intrinsic familial love than most estranged families would ever be capable of.

Albus Dumbledore, a man of many names – mostly those he was born with – had found himself momentarily in the possession of an orphaned child, all of fifteen months old. He believed this child was important, but of course, being an elderly wizard with various commitments and responsibilities, there was no possible way he could oversee raising the child himself. So it only seemed fitting to leave him with what remained of his family – one estranged aunt and her somewhat questionable husband and son. It didn’t occur to Dumbledore that the result might be anything other than loving acceptance, because family was important, wasn’t it?

He tended to forget, of course, the discord present between himself and his own brother. Aberforth wouldn’t be a happy uncle, nor would he even approve of the idea of Albus raising a child after their own tumultuous childhood.

Needless to say the 2nd of November 2001 wasn’t a pleasant one for the residents of Number Four Privet Drive.

**oOoOo**

Upon opening the door on that fateful morning to put out the empty milk bottles Petunia Dursley was confronted with one of the last things she ever expected to see on her doorstep. As her gaze zeroed in on the small form she had nearly tripped over time seemed to freeze. A million thoughts flew through her mind, ranging from _what the hell is happening_ to _the neighbours will talk_. That last one was the most important for her immediate state of mind. She was lucky enough to be one of the earliest risers on the street, but other people would be out and about soon, and if they caught so much as a glimpse of the child on the doorstep…

Swooping down she lifted the child – being moderately gentle in an attempt not to wake him – into her arms and quickly retreated indoors, shutting the front door firmly behind her. The child remained sound asleep, head lolling slightly to the side from the sudden movement. Petunia frowned down at the mess of blankets, absently noting that there was a letter tucked into the folds, but ignoring that detail for the time being. What caught her attention was the angry red lightning bolt scar on the infant’s forehead.

Her frown deepened, brows furrowed in thought. What on earth could create a scar like that?

Shaking herself from her thoughts Petunia deposited the bundle on the armchair in the living room and stepped back, adjusting her dressing gown around her tall, thin form. Still the child slept on, as though mocking her.

Somewhat disturbed by the way the day had turned out, she backed out of the room and headed up the stairs, intent on waking her husband. They had a lot to talk about before he went to work.

**oOoOo**

Vernon Dursley was easily irritated and not all that accommodating. While he doted on his wife and son and seemed to love his job – or at least attempting to get promotions – there were few things he appreciated outside of that little sphere that didn’t involve material goods. Having a child dumped on his front doorstep made his blood pressure soar through the roof.

The letter did little to soothe his rage.

Some insane freak with too many names wanted him and Petunia, perfectly ordinary, respectable people, to raise a baby freak because his freak parents were murdered? It hardly mattered that the child was apparently his nephew. It was an abomination! And in their house!

Once he’d finished his third cup of coffee and most of the donuts Petunia had bought from the bakery yesterday he was at least rational enough to think through what Petunia had explained to him.

As far as she knew, none of the neighbours had seen the baby on their doorstep, although she couldn’t be completely certain unless someone mentioned it out of the blue at some point in the near future. They could hand the child over to the police claiming it was a missing child that they had stumbled across and that they had no relation to it whatsoever, and there were two ways to go about doing that, but they were both risky. If they called the police to their house _everyone_ in the neighbourhood would know something was amiss. It would be horrible for their reputation. On the other hand, they could drive the child to the police station, but there was still a chance someone might see them taking the child to the car who would question them incessantly if they returned without him.

If, however, they were to raise the boy, even just for a short while until they could figure out some other way to get rid of him, they would be seen as loving and charitable. The neighbours would surely think highly of them for raising their orphaned nephew. They didn’t have to be _nice_ to him. Dudley would always come first. The boy didn’t need to be pampered or given nice things – it would only be temporary.

And in the end that was that. The letter was burnt after noting the contents – that the boy’s name was Harry James Potter, not that it mattered much to them – and deciding to ignore the instructions scrawled within. Until they could come up with a permanent solution to the problem, they would keep the boy alive. But as soon as it was practical, he was gone.

It was a promise.

**oOoOo**

That promise ended up taking nearly four years to fulfil.

During those four years Harry learnt a lot of things.

He learnt that family was useless, that it meant absolutely nothing. He learnt that no one ever listened to kids, no matter what they had to say. He learnt to stay quiet and keep his emotions locked away inside of him, because his relatives treated him with the least malice when they could easily ignore his existence. Mostly, he learnt that the only way to be accepted was to be perfectly and absolutely ordinary. Oh, and that magic was absolutely not real in any way shape or form.

That last point seemed oddly important, though since he could barely grasp the concept of magic as it was, it hardly mattered what the reasoning behind it all was.

Just after Harry’s fifth birthday Vernon was offered a trip to the United States by Grunnings, the firm he worked for. He was supposed to go and negotiate some deals in person, or something along those lines. Vernon hadn’t cared too greatly for the minute details. Only one thing stood out in his mind.

This was finally it. The moment when they would be able to get rid of the child that had been plaguing their house.

He accepted the offer without a moment’s hesitation, without even phoning to consult Petunia about it. She would understand. If his boss was confused by his sudden certainty, which he certainly was, he didn’t say anything. The sooner it was officiated the better, and though Vernon had not been his first choice as a suitable face for the company, if he was willing to drop everything and go at a moment’s notice like that then he couldn’t exactly complain.

Vernon drove home that day whistling to himself, and only honked at one slow driver. There was an almost palpable sense of excitement surrounding him as he nearly skipped into the living room – which would have been quite a sight to behold, given his impressive girth – where Petunia was keeping a close eye on Dudley while ironing some of Vernon’s shirts. Harry was in his cupboard, as Petunia hadn’t had any chores she trusted him to do.

Vernon grinned widely beneath his moustache, and Petunia immediately put the iron down, focussing all of her attention on him. He had never been enthusiastic about anything since Harry arrived.

“Vernon,” Petunia asked somewhat hesitantly, “What is it?”

Vernon rubbed his hands together gleefully. “My dear, we are going to the United States.”

For a moment Petunia simply stared, uncomprehending. But then comprehension lit up her eyes and she smiled too, suddenly free of the heavy weight of stress that had settled over her during the last few years. They were going to leave the country. It was the moment they had been waiting for ever since that horrid day in November of 2001. That hope was the reason they had acquired passports for Dudley and Harry the moment it was acceptable, so that they would be prepared to leave at the drop of a hat.

This was the best news they had had in a long while.

**oOoOo**

Even at five years old Harry could tell that something important was happening when his Aunt and Uncle began packing up all his meagre possessions (some clothes that sort of fit, a pack of crayons, a half-full pad of paper, and a handful of broken green soldiers). They had never done that before. Then there was the smiles that lit their faces. In all his life Harry had never once seen his Uncle smile. His Aunt did from time to time, normally to the neighbours or his cousin, but never to him.

When they were ushered into the car, Harry briefly wondered, with childlike innocence, if he was going to die.

The airport was terrifying. It was absolutely full of people, with crowds the like of which he’d never seen before in his short life. He kept getting jostled by people hurrying in every direction, and it was only his Aunt’s unusually firm grip on his wrist that stopped him from getting lost. Without the anchor to his family he would have been swept away in the rushing masses. What would happen if he got lost? He wasn’t willing to tempt fate and find out.

It was a long flight. The longest amount of time Harry had ever had to spend both in close proximity with such a large amount of people, and sitting in one place while travelling. He spent plenty of time sitting listlessly in his cupboard, but this was a completely different experience. Thankfully he did manage to sleep for a long portion of the flight, because it gave him an escape from his fidgety cousin, who hadn’t seemed in any hurry to try and sleep. Dudley was the worst suited to the flight, his chubby build uncomfortably restricted in the plane seat mixing with his displeasure from not knowing what was happening and his inability to annoy Harry.

**oOoOo**

Upon landing, and once the odd family had made their way through the lengthy customs process, they packed all their stuff up into a rented car, picked a direction, and started driving. Vernon wasn’t due for the meetings for another week, which they had been grateful for, since it gave them time to figure out what they were going to do.

**oOoOo**

Route 800 came along nearing the end of their second day of driving. Harry was restless, knowing that something was going to happen to him, but not knowing _what_.

Then they encountered the sign, down the road, just off one of the turn-offs.

_Welcome to Night Vale._

Frowning in confusion Vernon pulled over onto the desert dirt at the side of the road, turning the engine off. Petunia handed him the map they had procured at his unspoken request. He scanned it for a long time, eyes flicking back and forth, forehead scrunched in confusion.

“Pet,” he muttered softly, “It’s not on the map. At all. This, this _Night Vale_ place, it doesn’t exist.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, breath catching momentarily. It was unprecedented. Only it wasn’t. Whatever was happening, this would be the best place to leave the boy, for better or for worse. Because like it or not this seemed like one of _their_ towns, existing when it wasn’t supposed to.

(They were, of course, wrong on both counts. Maps purchased in Night Vale were very clear about where exactly Night Vale was – if you could read the multiple layers of instructions in Double Spanish, Reverse Latin, and Ancient Runes. And despite their belief, no wizard had ever stepped foot in the strange town. A coincidence perhaps. If you’re the sort who believes in that sort of thing.)

Shoving the map into Petunia’s arms Vernon unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He opened the boot, pulled out Harry’s small bag of belongings, and set it on the ground. As he shut the boot he glanced once more in the direction of the sign. It seemed like it was mocking them somehow. He shuddered, and quickly opened Harry’s door, motioning for the boy to get out of the car. Harry did so without protest.

“Pick up your bag and come with me,” Vernon instructed, setting off toward it. Harry shuffled along just behind him, bag strap draped across his shoulder, wondering what was happening.

It didn’t take long, maybe five minutes or so, to reach the welcome sign. Once there Vernon smiled nastily, rubbing his hands together.

“I want you to sit here boy, and whoever comes along, you go with them. Understand?”

He understood the words, but he couldn’t fathom _why_. His relatives’ behaviour had always confused him, it never made sense. Nevertheless, he did as instructed, and watched, first as his Uncle walked back to the rental car, and then as his family drove away.

Leaning back on his arms Harry looked up at the sign, and hoped fervently that someone would find him. Kind or not, anyone was better than what he could only imagine would happen if he were left out in the sun without food and water.

And though he didn’t know it, Night Vale heard his prayer.


	2. Adoption

“And, as always, Good Night, Night Vale. Good Night.”

 Cecil leaned away from the microphone as he switched it off, listening through his headphones as one of the interns fiddled with the sound board until the next show began – an hour documenting the different sounds of rainfall. Though the station went through interns at a fairly steady rate, they always managed to find their way around the equipment fairly quickly.

Not really interested in listening to the next broadcast, and hoping to stop by the Ralphs on his way home, Cecil removed his headphones, placing them gently on his desk for tomorrow and his next show. As he stood from his chair a knock sounded on the door of his recording booth.

While not unusual, interns normally knocked on his door when he was in the middle of broadcasting. After his show they usually waited in the hallway or the break-room if they wanted to talk to him. But, as with everything else in Night Vale, Cecil simply took it in his stride and opened the door, as he was planning on anyway, to see who it was.

Outside his booth stood an unusually pale Intern Connor, accompanied by a spaced-out looking zombie child. The child had forgettable features, pale skin and hair, and was emitting a low hum. He wasn’t sure if the child was female, or male, or neither. The City Council had started using the odd children as messengers the previous year, and he was getting pretty used to them by now. The interns were having a harder time adjusting, since they were continuously coming and going. Connor had only been interning for two weeks, and this was his first encounter with one of the messenger children.

Smiling cheerfully Cecil turned to the child, awaiting whatever odd method of message delivery was being utilised on this visit.

The humming fading to a stop the child opened its mouth, revealing a small scroll tied shut with a purple ribbon. Without batting an eye Cecil tugged the slightly damp paper free, curling his fingers around it. Connor whimpered as the child resumed its low humming. Lowering his gaze Cecil tugged at the edge of the ribbon, watching it unravel. It was from the City Council, obviously. Thankfully it wasn’t a notice for another session of re-education. For a twenty-seven year old he knew he’d been through far more re-education sessions than just about anyone else in Night Vale.

He was to go to City Hall.

When his pale gaze lifted from the page the child was gone, as silently as it arrived, and Intern Connor seemed moments away from passing out. Cecil shoved the paper in the back pocket of his dark slacks, loosened his purple tie, smiled reassuringly at Connor, and headed out of the building.

**oOoOo**

Once he arrived at City Hall Cecil was ushered into a darkened room, where the City Council sat around a semi-circle conference table, features obscured by shadow. The councillor in the centre of the table stood, pale hands resting on the table-top.

Speaking in unison, as usual, they delivered a surprising message.

“Cecil. There is a child, abandoned at the entrance to the city. Find him, take him in, raise him, love him.”

Cecil opened his mouth automatically to agree with whatever had just been said, but then he actually processed it. Mouth open slightly in confusion Cecil’s pale eyes widened. He tugged uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt, staring into the shadows.

“… a child?”

The visible fingers of the councillor tapped impatiently against the table. Flinching slightly Cecil rushed to finish his thought.

“But I don’t know anything about children! Surely there’s someone better suited?”

“As it is written, so it shall be!” They chanted monotonously, as one.

In other words, it didn’t matter how much Cecil argued, they had made up their minds. Shoulders slumping in resignation Cecil nodded obediently and wandered out of the meeting room. Without conscious thought his feet brought him to the stone tablet. And there it was.

_Cecil Gershwin Palmer: radio host, father._

Unavoidable then. Completely unavoidable. He sighed, and his tattoos twitched agitatedly along his arms, the tentacle ink on his forearms creeping down to sympathetically caress his wrists and hands.

Rather confused and bewildered by it all, but unwilling to find anyone to question, knowing quite well the dangers that accompanied that sort of thing, Cecil left City Hall, steady feet guiding him back to his car. Once he was situated in the driver’s seat he turned on the engine, listening to the radio crackling to life. For a minute or so Cecil simply breathed, eyes closed, listening to the soothing sounds of rainfall. He wasn’t afraid of kids. True, he didn’t spend much time with his one year old niece, Janice, but it wasn’t because he didn’t like her…

“Please let the kid be older than Janice,” he muttered hurriedly, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. With a sense of finality he took one more deep breath and opened his eyes, pulling out onto the road.

It only took ten minutes or so for Cecil to drive from City Hall to the outskirts of town and Route 800. The roads were fairly empty, and though he didn’t currently possess stop sign immunity, it seemed that the few other cars littering the road certainly did.

It was rare that Cecil had need to drive this far out of town. In fact, the only time he’d ever really seen the Welcome sign was when he left to travel Europe. Turning off onto the dusty desert ground he parked just behind the sign and killed the engine. It wasn’t until he was standing beside his car, squinting into the distance, that he noticed the small figure.

Sitting in the dirt in the shadow of the Welcome sign – it’s late in the evening now, though the sun had shown no signs of setting anytime soon – was a child. The child he was supposed to look after. The child he was supposed to raise. Rolling his shoulders and smoothing down his purple waistcoat, Cecil slowly approached the child. The young boy stirred sluggishly as Cecil neared, and he was suddenly left wondering how long the kid had been out in the desert for.

A fierce protectiveness welled up inside him. As though in response to his raging emotions his third eye blinked once, seemingly focussing on the child as Cecil crouched down in front of him. There was an energy flowing through the kid that he’d never seen before, but it was enough. It made sense now. Though the kid obviously wasn’t _from_ Night Vale, or Cecil would have recognised him, it made sense that the Council wanted him, of all people, to look after the kid, to make sure he didn’t fall victim to an unidentified helicopter pilot or dehydration or whatever else decided to creep across the desert in the next week. Born here or not, the kid was going to fit in just fine.

“Hey there kiddo,” Cecil called softly, not wanting to startle him, regardless of the fact that he seemed to have already noticed his presence.

“‘m s’posed to go with you, I think,” the kid mumbled quietly, as though he hadn’t spoken in quite some time. He shifted in the dirt, fingers clenching around the strap of his bag. Cecil tried not to frown.

“Rather than that, do you _want_ to come with me?”

If the kid said no, no matter how unlikely that was, Cecil wouldn’t force the point. The Council would be furious, and he’d definitely be forced through re-education, but he wasn’t going to kidnap a child.

For the first time the kid actually looked at him properly. Wary forest green eyes stared up into Cecil’s own pale, pupil-less ones, scanning him, searching for something. Cecil waited patiently for the kid to make his mind up.

“You’re a freak,” the kid whispered, but rather than disgust he spoke with what seemed almost like… awe. Cecil blinked in confusion and tilted his head to one side, third eye half-lidded. “Just like me.”

Cecil had a distinct, instinctual dislike of the word freak, but under the circumstances he supposed he could let it slide. It made sense anyway, to a degree. There were few things that would drive someone to abandon a child in the desert, but he guessed that suspected freakishness might just be enough for some people. Horrid outsiders, but they were unfortunately still people nonetheless.

So he said the only thing he could.

“Well, us freaks should stick together then huh?”

He’d deal with the freak thing later.

The kid nodded vigorously, eyes wide in astonishment. Cecil figured he’d need to learn the kid’s name eventually, but first he needed to get him out of the open. Even with the SSP helicopters monitoring the airspace, the desert was a dangerous place at night.

Pushing himself to his feet Cecil reached a hand down to the kid and, after a moment of hesitation, a much smaller hand was placed atop his own. He tugged gently, helping the kid to his feet, and picked up the bag, ignoring the desert dust that coated it.

“Alright then,” Cecil announced to no one in-particular – even the SSP don’t really have much in the way of surveillance all the way out on the edge of town. His third eye is mostly closed, at rest, no longer required. The boy watched him silently. “Time to go home.”

**oOoOo**

It only takes a day or so to get everything sorted out.

It would have been even faster, but Cecil still had to work, because Station Management answered to no one, not even City Council or the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency, and they wouldn’t sit by and let him take a day off unless he was truly dying – and even then they’d rather let him bleed out in the recording booth.

After arriving back to his apartment he’d given the kid a glass of water and sent him off to bed in the spare bedroom, a room that Cecil had never before had need of, as he never really had any guests over, nor did he have a roommate, nor had he bothered turning it into any sort of study or office, since he had no need of either. He had then spoken aloud of his intended actions next to the open window, before himself retiring to his own room.

The necessary forms were sitting on his kitchen table when he woke the next morning.

He managed to fill out the majority of the forms with no trouble, using home-made glowing green ink and the handle of a paintbrush. Most of the details in a regular adoption were unimportant, and it helped that the whole process was Council Mandated.

Unfortunately the kid was still asleep by the time Cecil needed to head to the station, so he scribbled a quick note and left it on the table. After leaving a hot cup of citrus scented coffee on the window sill for the Sheriff’s Secret Police Officer sequestered away in the tall tree he locked the front door and headed out.

And so began the unusual upbringing of Harry James Potter, adopted son of Cecil Gershwin Palmer, and lost saviour of the wizarding world.


	3. The Scientist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lately I've been having a really hard time concentrating on, well, anything really. So this chapter didn't end up nearly as long as I thought it inevitably would be, and it's not as good as it could be either. But it's something.

Harry Potter didn’t remember much about the outside world. Nor of his life ‘before’. He remembered arriving in Night Vale as a five year old, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell you where he came from, or how he’d made it out into the desert.

He knew Cecil wasn’t his real dad, but he got the feeling that blood relations were over-rated, and Cecil was the best dad you could ask for in a place like this. The Sheriff’s Secret Police and Old Woman Josie were sort of like his extended family, everyone watching over him in the hours when he wasn’t at school and Cecil was still at the radio station.

Life was good. It was also terrible, and terrifying, but that was just how the world worked. He had a handful of friends, he hadn’t yet been called up to join the Boy Scouts, and the toxic sludge in the hallway of their apartment had dulled to a pleasant glow, emitting a low scent of limes, instead of screeching at them when they walked past.

Every day was different but the same. No one really liked change, but it happened anyway without their permission, so they all pretended it was okay. That was, until just over a month before Harry’s twelfth birthday.

As far as Harry knew, he was the only outsider (save for new members of the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency) who had arrived in Night Vale for years. But in June, a whole band of new folk rolled into town. He would have noticed eventually on his own – of course he would have, they were outsiders, so obviously different to everyone in town, although as far as he knew no one had of yet paused to shout “Interloper!” at any of the newcomers – but Cecil had become rather fixated himself, and with his voice drifting through the air from every radio in town, out of open windows and doors and even some trees, it was pretty hard to miss.

His dad was, of course, in his selective obsession, ignoring the volley of scientists who had arrived _with_ the man with the beautiful hair and teeth. In fact, the rambling that followed Harry through the streets was almost enough that it might have been a safe day to go visit his cousin Janice without having to listen to Cecil rant about Uncle Steve when he got back home. He wasn’t going to chance it though. Given his profession, Cecil was rarely ever this excited about anything, (that would never be true again,) and Harry would hate to be the person to ruin that.

Instead, he veered off to go visit Old Woman Josie, down near the car lot. She’d looked after him from time to time, and was basically his very own grandmother. (He’d only met Cecil’s mother one time, during Homecoming two years ago. It had been… unnerving.)

It appeared that she already had visitors. Her lawn was full of strange creatures, most of them pale, one black, with eyes everywhere and multitudes of cheekbones and so many angles that Harry didn’t know where to look. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and pretended they weren’t there.

Closing your eyes and ignoring the world was a council mandated procedure. If you spotted something illegal, or forbidden, or something that _might_ be illegal or forbidden, it was best to pretend it didn’t exist. Harry abided by this philosophy with all his being. It was the best way to keep yourself in check.

The front door was open, so Harry went inside without pause. Josie was crouched down in front of her DVR, cursing lowly in Spanish as she fiddled with the remote. Her walking stick, which she used more to hurry people out of her way than to aid her movement, lay in the living room doorway, and Harry made sure not to touch it as he entered. Bad things happened when people touched Josie’s walking stick.

“Is it doing that thing where it records episodes of Doctor Who from ten years in the future instead of current Mentalist episodes again?” He said, forgoing a greeting altogether.

Josie didn’t so much as twitch at the sound of his voice. She always knew when someone was in her house.

“Right in one,” she shot back, turning on her knees to face him. Despite the issues, she offered him a warm smile, and Harry smiled back. “Erika was supposed to help me fix it, but they’re useless with technology. Not good for much more than changing lightbulbs.”

Harry hummed in agreement, despite not knowing who – or what – Erika was, and also not wanting to find out. He spread his hands out in front of him, placating, reassuring. “I’m sure it’ll be back to normal in no time.” He offered words instead of aid, because he was no better with technology than this Erika, and hadn’t found the patience to improve when Cecil hogged the remotes anyway.

“Oh I don’t doubt that.” Josie nodded decisively, the age lines on her dark face deepening momentarily as her face ducked in and out of the meagre light streaming through the window. “But what’s the point of divine intervention if they can’t fix a damn recorder?”

Harry carefully ignored the term ‘divine intervention’ and made a hasty excuse to leave. He loved Josie, but sometimes being around her was bad for his health.

**oOoOo**

It was several weeks after the arrival of the scientists when Harry breached the topic with Cecil. Cecil hadn’t made any pointed mention of his new infatuation at home, aside from his usual subconscious ramblings which Harry usually pretended he wasn’t privy to, and Harry had decided it was about time something was said.

It was after dinner one evening, when Cecil was struggling to decide what they should watch on Netflix, when he spoke up.

“I hear you’re rather a fan of science these days.”

Cecil stared at him with pale eyes, wide and surprised, a true deer in headlights moment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry pulled his legs up onto the couch and bodily turned to face his adoptive father.

“That scientist, what’s his name, ugh, Carlos? You’ve been pining after him all month. You know I don’t mind, right?”

Cecil blushed, avoiding eye contact and absently scrolling through Netflix.

“I didn’t realise you knew.”

Harry bit back a snort of laughter, because _of course_ Cecil didn’t realise how much time he spent rambling about teeth and hair and labcoats.

“Well I do. And I guess I kind of approve.” He’d caught a few glimpses of the scientist around town, and while an outsider wouldn’t have been Harry’s first bet, he wasn’t annoyed by it. He seemed decent enough.

Harry eventually regretted giving his blessing, because Cecil started gushing about Carlos at home twice as much as he had before.

**oOoOo**

His birthday was something Harry had never really cared for. It mostly just marked the continued passing of time, or what they perceived as time passing (and if the scientist was to be believed then maybe time didn’t work at all, so was it even that anymore?), and he didn’t see the need for celebration. Cecil didn’t see eye to eye with him on that. Harry was convinced it was just Cecil making up for the lack of celebration in his own childhood, what with his mother being how she is, but he let it slide. Cecil was an inherently childish man sometimes, and if that’s what he wanted to do then who was Harry to stop him?

His actual birthday fell on a Tuesday, and what with it being so soon after contract negotiations Harry managed to convince Cecil to hold off on his plans until the weekend.

Even the dinosaur scare from the PTA meeting during the week couldn’t derail Cecil.

Harry didn’t have a ton of friends, and most of them weren’t the party-going sort, but Cecil could pull guests out of thin air when he felt like it.

There was cake – store bought this year, as previous years had proven that Cecil and baking were never, _ever_ a good mix. No one knew what flavour it was, exactly, because the label was written in a cypher, but it was good. Josie was there, accompanied by some of her… friends, whom Harry still refused to acknowledge existed. Janice and her mother were there, though Steve had been pointedly _banned_ from attending, because even party-planning Cecil was adamantly against Steve being in their apartment.

Several Secret Police Officers were there, still in uniform and not technically off-duty, but willing enough to do their surveillance from indoors for the day.

Harry was only thankful they’d finally put an end to the strange party games Cecil had been coming up with over recent years. He’d had to sit through more than enough post-birthday apartment exorcisms for one lifetime.

**oOoOo**

Harry would never say it out loud, for fear of it getting back to Cecil somehow, but he was actually rather fond of Janice’s step-father, Steve Carlsberg. He had a way of thinking that was unique even in Night Vale, and while everyone else (namely Cecil) vilified him for it, Harry found it endlessly intriguing. During secret moments together he would tell Harry in low, cautious tones about the arrows in the sky, and what he thought they meant. Their talks never lasted very long before a pointed clearing of the throat would remind them of the presence of the veritable honour-guard of secret policemen Cecil had talked into watching over Harry for that precise reason. But they never stopped him from coming back time and again.

It was true that Harry didn’t understand half the things Steve said, couldn’t follow the explanations made in earnest to the one person who would listen, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. It reminded him, on the days when he started to forget, that there were places and things outside of their stretch of desert, outside of Night Vale, Desert Bluffs, Pine Cliff and Red Mesa. Things that existed, and things that didn’t, things that were understood and things that weren’t.

This remembrance sometimes made him feel impossibly small.

**oOoOo**

Harry locked himself in the panic room beneath their apartment building the moment he caught a glimpse of his double. He’d been tempted to do so the moment the sandstorm swept into town, but didn’t want to risk locking himself in a room with his other. He had no desire to see what this other him might be like.

He was not the only person with a key to the panic room, however, and not the first to have had the idea, either. Bryce from the apartment two floors up was already inside when Harry barged in, a blood-soaked corpse of identical build and attire lying in the opposite corner of the basement. The radio narrated the events outside in a low tone that made Harry’s skin crawl.

He sat halfway between Bryce and the corpse, because he had no idea which was the original and which was the double, and it seemed his safest option. Five years ago he might have been worried about being so close to a seemingly dead body, but for all its relatively consistent population numbers, Night Vale was a place full of death. While he was not in any way _pleased_ by it all, one tended to become accustomed to a certain level of death and mayhem.

Harry didn’t know how much time had passed, only that the pool of blood had since stopped creeping slowly towards him across the concrete floor. His consciousness had been drifting, the best way to pass the time that didn’t involve acknowledging either Bryce, but he noticed the exact moment the voice on the radio changed. It sent ice racing through his veins and into his heart, because that was _not_ his father, it was some other person, some twisted demon wrapped in sunshine and honey. Harry wanted to cover his ears, to cower away, but he couldn’t. Not until he knew Cecil was okay.

The waiting was the worst.

Harry stayed in the panic room in the basement until the broadcast ended. Then he unfolded himself from his corner of the room, exited into the building proper, and locked Bryce in there on his own. He hadn’t seemed keen to leave, and Harry didn’t care what he did from there on out. Though he was torn between staying home and racing to the station, he ultimately climbed the stairs to their apartment and settled in to wait just a little longer.

Cecil was in a right state himself when he stumbled through the front door with significantly less grace than usual. He left rusty smears on the carpet in the hallway, even after he took his shoes off. Splashes of blood soaked his neon orange socks and the ends of his lavender trousers, and he had a vaguely haunted look about him that Harry knew instinctively Cecil wasn’t actually aware of.

He looked… lost. Harry had never seen him quite like this before. It was a harrowing sight.

There hadn’t been anything in particular that Harry had wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut altogether. Instead he wrapped his arms around Cecil and buried his face in his tunic, trying (and failing) to erase _Kevin from Desert Bluffs_ from his mind.

It didn’t work. But, as always, he pretended it did.


End file.
